


Carpe Diem

by Magnolia822



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 17th Century, English Civil War, Established Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Memories, Missing Scene, Pining, Poetry, Politics, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 15:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20137729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: In which Crowley sort-of-intentionally creates seduction poetry, makes friends with 17th century writers, and attempts to woo Aziraphale. Then it all goes tits up.





	Carpe Diem

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in a Twitter chat, and I knew I had to write it, especially after that Shakespeare scene in the series. Dates and events are somewhat, but not entirely, historically accurate in terms of the timeline for the English Civil War. Also, the carpe diem poem dates back to the Greeks, but for the purposes of this story, we skip forward to the 17th Century. Because I got a little lazy. <3 
> 
> Quotes are taken from Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress," Robert Herrick's "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time," _Hamlet_ and Byron's "She Walks in Beauty." No real poets were hurt in the writing of this fic. 
> 
> I have just had it brought to my attention there is another fic where Crowley writes Romantic era poetry anonymously, which is awesome! You should go read that too [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19980127)
> 
> Thanks to Silly Goose for the beta and for encouraging me to change the ending :) No offense is intended, etc.

_Present Day_

“You mean to tell me you did actually write those poems?” 

“Had a hand in it. You quite liked them, if I recall.” Crowley looks over the rim of his wine glass at Aziraphale, who is flushing slightly as he remembers. The two of them are sat across from each other at their favorite Italian place, polishing off a bottle of red. It is three weeks, four days, six hours and eighteen minutes since the averted Apocalypse, and they have finally stumbled out of bed after a marathon of uninterrupted sex that lasted one week, two days, eight hours and thirty-two minutes, because Aziraphale was feeling peckish.

“You lied to me.” Aziraphale pokes listlessly at his tiramisu. 

“Just the once. I am a demon, after all.” 

Aziraphale huffs. “I didn’t even know you knew Robert Herrick.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Him and Marvell, Donne, Johnson. Herrick was easy enough—funniest thing, he was a vicar—”

“Oh, I know.” Aziraphale takes a considered sip of wine and rolls his eyes. “You should have heard Gabriel go on about it at staff meetings. He was in_suff_erable” 

Crowley shrugs. “Not my fault. Just took a little infernal inspiration. You know my motto, minimum effort, let the humans do the rest. Some of my best work, really.” 

“Many faithfully married people succumbed to illicit temptation because of those poems.” Aziraphale sounds more impressed than angry, but his pink cheeks turn crimson. “And that night, you—you—my word, Crowley. You better tell me the whole story.” 

“I think we’ll need another bottle of wine.” Crowley gestures to the server. 

“Indeed.” 

_1647_

Crowley sits at the tavern table with his ale, trying his best to disappear into the furnishings and only partially succeeding. He’s come here to get drunk and is well on the way. The room is warm and humid for May, and all round him men speak in quiet, troubled whispers about the King. They’re saying there’s going to be another war. Charles’s power has been stripped away; he’s nothing more than a figurehead now, kept in place to ease the ascension of the Army or the Presbyterians, whoever manages to come out on top. This is a Royalist alehouse, and the tension is as thick as the air in the Pit when Hastur’s had a bad day. 

It’s all very tiring, really. And whatever Crowley has written in his memos to Hell, he’s had nothing to do with spreading foment among all of the English factions. It’s earned him another commendation, however; he supposes he can’t complain about that. Aziraphale wasn’t very happy about it, though. However much he is supposed to remain neutral, Crowely thinks the angel has a soft spot for Charles and the monarchy as an institution, which would make sense considering he’s an agent of Heaven, and they seem to go for that divine right bollocks.

Suffice it to say, Aziraphale has been in quite a huffy mood, and it’s starting to rub off on him. What he needs is a little _fun_ in his life. Clearly that won’t come from Aziraphale’s quarter. 

A middle-aged man with a distinguished moustache and hooked nose sits down at the table next to him. He’s dressed well in the current fashion, and on the table in front of him he has a sheaf of paper, quill, and a pot of iron gall ink. Crowley can’t help thinking he looks a bit familiar. The man takes a long sip of ale, wipes his moustache clean and rubs his hands together. 

“Are you a writer or something?” Crowley asks, more out of lack of anything else to do than any real curiosity. 

The man looks up from his manuscript and gives him an appraising gaze. He seems to find what he sees acceptable, because his shoulders relax. 

“Trying to be, I suppose you could say. Having a bit of trouble with inspiration at the moment.” 

Crowley perks up from his loose-limbed sprawl. “Are you a playwright?” 

“A poet.” 

The man doesn’t have the rakish look of a poet. With his jowls and pronounced paunch, he seems more like an aging bureaucrat. 

“I’m actually a vicar, by profession. I’m working on my first book.”

That explains it. 

“Oh,” Crowley says, already less interested. “Having a little trouble praising God’s grace and all that? Seems to be going around.” He glances around the room at the men bent with heads together, faces grim. 

“Well,” the vicar clears his throat. “Actually, it’s . . . a bit more . . . personal in nature.” 

“Ahhh.” Crowley nods approvingly. This might be just the fun he’s looking for. “A woman.” 

The vicar nods. “I suppose it’s not very godly of me. But if you saw her flaxen hair, her milky skin, her eyes as blue as the morning sky, well, you couldn’t blame me.” 

Crowley, who is suddenly reminded in spite of himself of someone quite befitting that description, nods in sympathy. The man may be a terrible poet, but Crowley understands that longing all too well. 

“So, she won’t give you the time of day?” 

“I’ve never even spoken to her, I confess.” 

“And you want to woo her with a poem?” 

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes.” The man looks utterly hopeless. 

“Buck up, my friend, I’ll buy you another.” Crowley extends his hand. “Anthony J. Crowley, at your service.” 

“Herrick, Robert Herrick, at yours.” 

_Three hours later_

“So, you see. You _see_,” Crowley says, nearly sliding off his chair. “That’s the problem, isn’t it, that for humans there’s not enough _time_ for it all. What good is it to wait? I mean, it’s not like there’s any reason. You grow old, your looks fade, you sicken, and you die.” 

“Don’t I know it.” Herrick blows out a breath and rubs his hand over his face. “I used to be quite thin, you know. Too many pork pies.” 

_Aziraphale loves pork pies,_ Crowley thinks to himself, his head spinning. He wonders when he will see the angel again. It’s only been a few months, but recently the time spent apart has started to feel much, much longer. They used to go a millennia or more without speaking, and he was fine. That’s the damned thing about love, how it slows down time to a crawl so that days apart feel like weeks and weeks, years. Pretty problematic for an immortal being, when time stretches out in a limitless expanse and the only one you want to be with won’t even admit he likes you. 

Not that he _loves_ the angel, mind. He just can’t live without him. _Ugh._ Maybe he does love him a little. 

Crowley tips back the last of his ale and belches. “All these rules about who you can be with and when and why, and for what? You might as well just do the deed. Enjoy yourself, amIright?” His words slur together as he squints down at the paper between them. “Now, go ahead and read what you’ve got so far.” 

Herrick closes one eye and sets down his quill. “Collect roses while ye can. Time’s a-passing fast.” 

Crowley shakes his head. “No. No no nooooo. That’s got no rhythm at all. She’s never going to drop her knickers over that rot.”

“I don’t want her to drop her knickers!”

“Don’t you, though?” 

“Perchance a little.” 

“All right. How’s this.” Crowley tries to think through the foggy haze of his drink-addled brain. “I’ve got it! Gather. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,/Old Time is still a-flying;/And this same flower that smiles today/ tomorrow will be dying.” 

Herrick grins. “That’s brilliant! Can I use that?” 

“It’s yours, it’s yours.” Crowley feels inordinately pleased with himself, which makes him magnanimous. “Another round?” 

They spend the rest of the afternoon drinking, talking, and writing poetry, and by the time he stumbles back to his rooms in the evening Crowley can barely remember his name. He decides not to sober himself up, because somewhere at the back of his mind lies a pretty troubling realisation he’s trying to repress. 

Two years later, they kill Charles I, and Crowley receives a signed copy of _Hesperides: Or, The Works Both Humane & Divine._ Inside, tucked against the poem they wrote together, is a short note. _It worked._

_1649_

“Oh, Crowley, isn’t it just awful about the King? This century is turning out to be a complete nightmare.” Aziraphale throws a few crumbs of his cake to the ducks, who’ve been circling around waiting for him to notice them. They quack loudly and beat their wings at each other in their eagerness, doing a pretty good approximation of the bloodthirsty political factions of England. Crowley is feeling rather depressed. 

It’s a cold February day, and Aziraphale is wearing a long, pale collared cloak with silver buttons; his normally pale face is ruddy with cold. They are standing shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the water. 

“Yes, it is, angel, but don’t talk so loud. You never know who’s listening.” It wouldn’t do for Aziraphale to be overheard spouting royalist sympathies with the fate of the nation still so unclear. 

“Quite so.” Aziraphale glances around nervously. He had been glad enough to see Crowley when they first met, but now he’s fidgeting with his fingers, a clear sign he’s worried. “What do you think will happen next, with this Cromwell chap?” 

“War, most likely. He’s one of ours.” 

“Ah. That’s what I was afraid of. I wish—I wish things could be settled more peacefully this time.” 

“So do I.” 

Aziraphale gives him a surprised look, as he sometimes does when Crowley agrees with him; Crowley knows what’s lurking in that glance, those hopeful eyes. He is about to say something about Crowley being _kind._ “Makes my job too easy, otherwise,” he amends. 

Does the trick. Aziraphale scoffs at him. “Oh Crowley, please. If you had the choice, you’d never work another day in your life.” 

“You’re wrong.” 

“Am I?” 

They stand together for another few silent minutes, and Crowley watches Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, not knowing when they’ll see each other again. He wants the angel to ask him to supper, but he has a feeling that won’t happen today. The package in his satchel feels like a leaden weight. He wonders if he should forget the whole thing, after all. It’s not like Aziraphale has ever really given him a reason to hope. Still, he keeps thinking about the note; for a man as unfortunate-looking as Herrick, success is nothing to sneer at. 

“Hey, angel. I’ve got something for you.” 

“Really?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. 

Crowley fumbles with his leather bag, his hands clumsy with cold and nerves. He huffs out a breath of steam in frustration, finally unveiling the paper-wrapped parcel. Before he can think better of it, he shoves it in Aziraphale’s direction. 

Aziraphale is quiet as he unwraps it. “A book,” he says, with surprise and warmth. “It’s poetry. Why, Crowley, how—” 

Crowley glares at him. “Don’t. Sss’nothing,” he says. “Just sssomething I picked up.” 

After an eternity, Aziraphale murmurs to himself. “This is quite astonishing. It’s . . . oh, my, this one is lovely.” He is reading the poem, which Herrick entitled “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.”

Crowley shrugs nonchalantly, his heart beating fast. “You like it?” 

“I love it. It’s . . . almost scandalous, isn’t it? But it is true, time on Earth is so fleeting for humans. I do prefer it when they enjoy themselves.” 

He can’t help it; Crowley barks out an incredulous laugh. “Do you?” 

“Well, within reason. As long as no one gets hurt and no one violates the sanctity of their marriage vows.” Aziraphale frowns down at the book, as though unsure how to feel about it. He is like this, sometimes; Crowley knows he needs space to think, to reconcile his Heavenly belief system with the world of humans they both love. 

“And what about beings like us, _making the most of time_?” Crowley asks, because he’s never been able to stop questioning, even when it might get him in trouble. 

“You mean . . . “ Aziraphale’s cheeks turn bright pink. “And have you?” 

“A few times.” 

Instead of being shocked, Aziraphale looks curious. “What was it like?” 

“Not bad,” Crowley lies, because he had wanted someone else even then, though it was a long time ago. 

“Oh. I’ve never made the effort. I have wondered about it, of course.” 

“Of course. ‘Sss’only natural.” But that’s not true, is it, because Aziraphale is an angel and a creature of love, not lust. Crowley may have been an angel once, but now he is not, and if his relationship with Aziraphale has taught him anything (and it has taught him much), it’s that he certainly is capable of feeling base desires. So maybe Aziraphale is too, after all? Wasn’t there a handbook or something for navigating all of this human stuff up on Earth? There should be. He has half a mind to start a petition. 

“Would you tell me about it?” 

Crowley forgets to blink for a long time; he wonders if Aziraphale notices.

There had been a woman, during the Inquisition. She’d been kind to him when he could barely see straight after drinking himself into a stupor to forget the atrocities he’d witnessed. After she took him home and gave him food and a place to rest, they’d found themselves in bed. That was the first time, and Crowley had imagined it was Aziraphale moving above him, that it was Aziraphale’s warm body taking him inside. He would have given anything for it to have been Aziraphale caring for him that night. 

Then there were others, soon after. He figured he needed more practice to get the bloody angel out of his head. It hadn’t really worked. 

“I don’t know, angel. Better not.”

Aziraphale closes the book decisively. “Thank you for the book, my dear. I shall treasure it.” 

Crowley supposes it’s better than nothing. 

_1652_

They don’t speak of the Herrick poem again, but the more Crowley thinks about it, the more Aziraphale’s reaction gives him something to hope for. Aziraphale was intrigued, not disgusted or horrified, and for that Crowley counts the experiment a minor success.

He figures it’s worth another shot. 

This time, the poet is a young man named Andrew Marvell, who is working as a tutor for the daughter of a retired army commander. Crowley makes his acquaintance at a party one evening while the two of them are standing watching the other guests perform a new dance, recently imported from France, called the minuet. Crowley is there for a standard temptation of the host, a duke with a penchant for cheating and swindling his friends, but he hasn’t had to do much more than suggest a game of cards. It’s a terrible bore. 

“Not much of one for dancing?” Crowley asks once they get talking. He can’t help noticing Marvell’s eyes immediately stray to one lady in particular, a buxom brunette with laughing eyes, who is currently partnered with a tall, broad-chested officer. 

“I find it a bit tedious to learn the steps,” Marvell says. “And if I’m being frank, these sorts of gatherings always seem a waste of time.” 

“Something else you’d rather be doing?” Crowley follows Marvell’s gaze with a nod. 

“Why yes, I’d rather be writing,” says Marvell with a smirk. 

“Ah. I see. What sorts of things do you write?” he asks, though he’s already read some of the poems Marvell published while still at Cambridge. There is raw talent there, he thinks, but a little demonic inspiration never hurt. Much. 

The night wears on. Crowley and Marvell retire from the ballroom to play billiards, and while they drink wine and smoke, Crowley learns that Marvell is writing a new poem. 

“I already have the title,” Marvell says, leaning drunkenly against his mace with a dreamy expression on his face, which is not handsome. His long, curly wig is slightly askew. “To His Lovely Mistress.” 

“Hmm,” says Crowley. “Not bad.” 

“You don’t like it.” 

“It seems a bit nice for what you’re trying to say, doesn’t it?” 

Marvell seems perplexed, but then his eyes brighten. “You’re right. _Lovely_ isn’t the word. What about coy?” 

“Coy is definitely better,” Crowley says, thinking of someone to which the descriptor applies nicely. “What else have you got?” 

By the early morning, as revelers finally abandon the manor for their coaches, the poem is much improved, if Crowley does say so himself. He’s particularly fond of a set of couplets he’d tweaked near the end. _Now let us sport us while we may,/And now, like amorous birds of prey,/Rather at once our time devour/Than languish in his slow-chapped power._ The whole birds of prey thing is maybe a little on the nose given the wings and all, but he thinks Aziraphale will like it. 

All in all, Marvell’s verse is more suited to his taste than Herrick’s had been—it’s funnier, and that in Crowley’s estimation is almost always better. But there are troubling things Crowley learns about the man he can’t quite reconcile with the witty, thoughtful person he’s spent the evening with: Marvell’s support of Cromwell, for instance. Crowley’s no fan of the monarchy, but what the man did to the Irish is brutal even by Hell’s standards. He also can’t stop singing the praises of a chap named John Milton, who sounds like a wanker. 

“So, do you think you’ll publish it?” Crowley asks, gathering his cloak. 

“Not sure.” Marvell shrugs as he settles a hat over his long, messy curls. “With the world being such as it is, one never can tell how one’s words will be used against him.” His eyes travel to the door, where the buxom brunette and her chaperone are preparing to depart. “But perhaps I may share it with an audience of one.” 

“Ah, yes. Good luck to you with that.” 

“And you. I hope whoever she is, she’s worth waiting for.” 

Crowley frowns to himself on his way home, trying to figure out how he gave himself away. 

_1682_

_Not sure_ turns out to be not at all, at least until Marvell’s death thirty years later. It’s an awfully long time to wait for a seduction, but what’s a few decades when you’ve been pining for millennia? Not that he’s pining, of course. Demons don’t pine. 

“Here we are, my dear,” Aziraphale says, settling down on the corner of the chaise in his new flat. Both of them have had to move from their previous lodgings, and for the first time in history, they’ve let rooms on the same street. “What do you think?” 

“It’s nice, angel.” The sitting room is already cluttered with books and papers, quills and ink. It smells musty save for the subtle hint of lavender that follows Aziraphale wherever he goes. 

“It is rather cozy, isn’t it? How is your place?” 

Crowley, who hasn’t been back to his barren room for three days, shrugs. “Oh, fine. Fine.” 

“So, how’s the wiling going? Anything important coming up I should know about?” 

Since the restoration of the monarchy under Charles II and the fall of the Puritans from power, tempting was going quite well. Crowley barely had to do anything at all, his preferred modus operandi. 

“There’s a banquet next week at the palace. A couple Spanish dignitaries will be there, and I’m supposed to encourage debauchery: greed, gluttony, lust, the usual.” 

“What a coincidence. I’m supposed to ensure the Spanish delegation’s visit is a rousing—yet sober—success.” Aziraphale sips his tea. 

“It’s close by. We could . . . go together, this time.” 

“I’d like that.” Aziraphale’s smile does irritating things to Crowley’s insides. They are quiet for a moment, and Crowley scans the books on the shelf, gratified when he sees the volume he’d sent over the week before as a housewarming gift. “Is there something else on your mind, dear?” 

“Ah . . . well,” he says. “I was wondering what you thought of the book.” 

“The Marvell? Oh, yes, I forgot to thank you. It’s a lovely addition to my collection.” He seems somewhat flustered, fingers tapping against his china cup. The complex play of emotions across his face is fascinating to watch but terrifies Crowley utterly. He wonders if he’s made a mistake. “I couldn’t help thinking of the conversation we had some time ago. About sexual relations.” 

“Oh?” Crowley says, lounging back against his chair and kicking his feet out in attempts to look casual. “I don’t really remember.” 

Aziraphale ignores him. “And wondering about why you would send me this particular book, when you’ve only ever given me one other. Both contain poems of a certain variety. Seduction poems. Carpe diem, I believe they are called.” 

“And do you have any theories?” Crowley asks with a voice gone hoarse and low. He hadn’t expected to be so utterly called out, hadn’t expected Aziraphale to be braver than him. Perhaps this is the moment he’s waited for all these years. 

“They’re causing quite a stir in Heaven. I received another memo from Gabriel.” Aziraphale sighs and massages his temples. “Apparently, they are having the desired effect. There’s an uptick in otherwise good Christians being sent Below. You wouldn’t have anything to do with it, would you?” 

Crowley is speechless, not sure whether to laugh or cry at how badly he’s got this wrong. Of course Aziraphale would never think, wouldn’t ever want . . . Crowley wants to kick himself for being such a blasted fool. 

“Nothing at all, angel,” he says. “Now, about that Spanish delegation.”

&&&

On the evening of the banquet, Crowley and Aziraphale hire a carriage for appearance’s sake and arrive at the palace together. After a quick miracle to change the guest list to include Messrs. A. Z. Fell and Anthony J. Crowley, Esquires, they separate and take seats at opposing sides of the table.

The spring night is warm and wine flows freely, the atmosphere convivial as it usually is among old friends. The Spanish ambassador is seated to Crowley’s left and his counterpart to Aziraphale’s right. The aging King is at the head of the table with one of his mistresses at the opposite end, and two pretty women, courtiers’ wives, sit on the other sides of each ambassador. As the evening continues, Crowley can barely get a word in edgewise, and he can see Aziraphale is having the same problem, the mounting frustration evident on his face. They’d both vowed not to use any miracles. It’s not exactly a contest, but even so Crowley is pretty sure he’s winning. 

He turns out to be right. Four hours later, both dignitaries are in bed with the wives. Charles, though no longer a young man, quietly takes his leave with two ladies-in-waiting. The entire palace is awash with pheromones, and while Crowley’s human form usually remains unaffected unless he makes an effort, tonight, Aziraphale is here beside him. 

“Well, that didn’t turn out as I’d hoped,” Aziraphale says to Crowley. “Señor Alfonso de Leon didn’t listen to a word I said.” The two of them stand watching as one of the cuckolded courtiers drinks himself into a stupor on an ornate sofa, muttering about challenging the Spanish to a duel. “That poor man.” 

“I’ll take care of him,” says Crowley with a snap. The courtier’s head droops, and he begins to snore loudly. “Won’t even remember this in the morning. There won’t be a duel.” 

“Oh Crowley . . .” Aziraphale beams at him, his wide eyes sweetening. Crowley grits his teeth. 

“Don’t worry about it, angel. Come on, let’s go outside.” 

The gardens around the palace are the perfect place for assignations, however, which doesn’t do much to improve Crowley’s situation. They walk unseen past several couples in various states of debauchery, until finally they reach an unoccupied bench near the roses. Aziraphale surprises Crowley by sitting quite close to him, their thighs almost touching. Crowley has to dig his fingertips into his palms to keep himself from reaching out. 

Something seems to be bothering the angel; Crowley can tell by the nervous twist of his hands, the way he keeps glancing at Crowley whenever he thinks Crowley isn’t looking. 

“Are you all right? Sorry it didn’t go your way, tonight. I think it was pretty much out of our hands from the beginning.” 

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. “He quoted _that poem_ to her, you know. The Marvell.” 

“Oh, did he?” Crowley feigns disinterest. “Which bit?” 

“_Let us roll all our strength and all/Our sweetness up into one ball,/And tear our pleasures with rough strife/Through the iron gates of life:/Thus, though we cannot make our sun/Stand still, yet we will make him run_.” 

“You’ve memorized all that?” Crowley can’t help feeling a burst of pride. The last two couplets had been his suggestion. But after the pride comes guilt, as he realises his tempting had been successful after all. 

Aziraphale gives him a little frown. “It’s catchy.” 

“Hmm.” Crowley wishes they had another bottle of wine. He wishes he were alone so he could take matters into his own hands. It’s absolutely torturous, the way Aziraphale’s leg moves slightly until it presses against his own. He isn’t even sure the angel’s aware he’s doing it until he notices Aziraphale has stopped breathing. It isn’t like either of them actually needs to breathe, but both of them do as a matter of course to blend in with humans. It’s only when Aziraphale is anxious or preoccupied that he forgets. 

“I’ve been thinking over what you said all those years ago, about . . . making an effort.” 

“Oh?” Crowley’s throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

“I would like to try.” 

“With a human?” Crowley can barely get the words out. Thinking of Aziraphale with a human, or any other being for that matter, makes him want to tear the Earth apart from north to south. He’d rather be discorporated. 

“I couldn’t with a human; it wouldn’t be safe. I’m not sure how I’ll react, in the moment, if you will. What if my true form emerges?” Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “No, that’s not what I want.” 

“What are you saying, angel?” 

Their faces are mere inches apart. Aziraphale is staring at his mouth, his expression determined and . . . lustful. For the first time in the history of their relationship, Crowley can feel the desire radiating off Aziraphale in waves, mingling with a new scent. Crowley’s snake senses immediately react, and he can’t help opening his mouth to taste the air. 

And then they are kissing, softly, slowly. Aziraphale is not skilled, but he is eager and so incredibly delicious. Crowley’s chest feels like it’s about to burst with a heart that is suddenly full of life, of desire, and so much love he can’t possibly contain it. His body is humming with power, his true form only barely restrained, and it is only by exerting the strength of his will he is able to stop himself from shaking to pieces. The last thing they need is to have to erase the memories of every partygoer in the garden. Aziraphale, for all his inexperience, clutches at his shoulders, his movements becoming bolder and more assured. 

Crowley finds himself holding Aziraphale’s face gently between his hands, licking into his mouth to get more, but wanting to draw it out all the same. He feels unbearably tender in spite of their urgency. 

“I think we should seize the day, don’t you?” Aziraphale whispers when they finally break apart. 

The words are like the shock of holy water down Crowley’s spine. The damned poems. That’s why Aziraphale wants to do this. It’s what Crowley hoped for, what he sort-of-not-completely planned, and yet he’d lied to Aziraphale when he’d asked. He can’t do this without coming completely clean. 

He isn’t sure what to say, how to start explaining. He pulls away to collect his thoughts and feels Aziraphale stiffen beside him. 

“Look, angel. There’s something I need to tell you—” 

“Actually, maybe this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no.” Crowley puts his hands back on Aziraphale’s shoulders to stop him from rising. “Just listen.” 

A laughing woman holding her skirts runs down the path in front of them with a man trailing after her, holding onto his hat. The distraction is enough to loosen Crowley’s hold on Aziraphale, and a second later he’s on his feet.

“I think it’s best we keep things as they are. Foolish of me. Please, forgive my impertinence and promise me we won’t speak of it again.” 

Crowley can hardly keep up with the quick change of pace; his body is still buzzing from the feel of Aziraphale’s warm lips against his. He shakes his head to clear it. “Ngk, if that’s what you want, angel, but I really—”

Aziraphale disapparates.

&&&

Three months later, when they see each other again, Crowley keeps his promise. He has thought of little else since that night, going over and over the words they said to each other, trying to figure out what it all means. Aziraphale just wanted to experiment, Crowley finally decides. That’s why he was so easily sidetracked after their interruption. And they had been drinking, of course.

Plus, there is the matter of the poems themselves. Perhaps it was for the best that nothing further had happened, because Crowley only wants Aziraphale if Aziraphale wants him back, not if he’s being influenced by some silly poetic idea. 

Finally, he is still a demon, and Aziraphale is an angel. He never really thought anything would happen between them, so he’s never had occasion to really consider the consequences, which, for Aziraphale, would be dire. He could lose everything. Crowley would rather work side-by-side with Hastur and Ligur for the next millennium than see anything bad happen to Aziraphale.

Crowley decides his writing days are over. 

And so they don’t speak of the kiss, and there are more wars, and more times of peace. There are days in the park and nights lingering over bottles of wine. There are times when Crowley aches so much he feels he might really die, and there are times he almost asks, but doesn’t. He still has his best friend, his only friend, and that’s all that matters. Mostly. 

_Present day_

“I can’t believe this,” Aziraphale says, more than a little tipsy now they’re on their third bottle of wine and second dessert. It was a long story. “You should have made me listen. Do you have any idea how much I wanted . . .” 

Crowley brushes the back of his hand against Aziraphale’s cheek, pulling his glasses down his nose so Aziraphale can see his eyes. Aziraphale likes them, apparently. “Would it have made a difference? We would have both realised we couldn’t carry on together, not with our esteemed colleagues watching from Above and Below. I wasn’t about to let you Fall, not for me.” 

“I would have.” 

“Maybe now, but then?” 

Diners at the table next to theirs are giving Crowley ‘oh my isn’t that adorable’ looks, so he pulls back and slouches into his chair, while at the same time surreptitiously extending his legs to knock against Aziraphale’s. He might be head over heels in love with the being across from him, but he has a reputation to uphold. 

“Well, none of it matters now, I suppose. A few hundred years lost, but we’re immortal beings, after all. Still, I don’t think we should waste any more time, do you?” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. 

Crowley scrambles for his wallet. “Let’s get the bill.”

&&&

There is nothing so brilliant on Heaven or Earth than the feeling of Aziraphale moving inside him. Crowley gasps as the thick, fat cock Aziraphale has given himself pushes in, stretching him wide and full. He arches his hips and wriggles from side to side, wanting it as deep as possible, moaning when Aziraphale buries himself to the hilt.

“Oh, my greedy darling,” Aziraphale says, “you feel so good.” 

“Fuck, yessss.” 

Crowley has lost track of time again. It may have been hours or days since their dinner, and his arse is slick from Aziraphale taking him. Now, they are chest to chest, breathing into each other’s mouths as Aziraphale starts to move. 

“You’re so beautiful. I love you,” Aziraphale says for the millionth time. Crowley finds he doesn’t mind at all. 

He fists his own cock slowly, wanting to wait, to draw it out. Already time has begun moving too quickly. He feels it slipping through his fingers like sand, and he knows that even if the world lasts another six thousand years before they all get smashed to stardust, it will never be enough. That’s the thing about being with someone you love, he supposes. 

They rock together gently until Crowley asks for more, gripping Aziraphale’s shoulders hard as he starts to move faster. The room above the bookshop is filled with the sounds of their moans and whispers, and Crowley can feel it as Aziraphale starts to lose control, his movements growing more erratic. He will never get enough. 

Later (how many times has it been? Who knows?) they lie together, Crowley’s head pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest. He likes the scratch of the hairs under his cheek, the give of the plush belly under his fingers. He dips down to feel Aziraphale’s soft cock, the sticky clench of his thighs. They can touch each other in all the ways they ever wanted. 

“I never knew you were such a romantic, Crowley.” 

He knows exactly what Aziraphale is on about. The bloody poems again. “They were about shagging, angel, not love.” 

“I’m not talking about the poems themselves. I’m talking about you, going through all that trouble just to get my attention.” 

Crowley flings his arm over his face. He can’t really deny it now, can he? “They seemed alright blokes. I was trying to help them out.” 

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, dear. Do you know what happened to them?” Aziraphale asks. “Herrick and Marvell?” 

“Oh yeah, funny thing, that. Went straight to hell, but they both got a transfer. Apparently, the Almighty was a big fan of their religious stuff. Not my cup of tea.” He rubs his nose, tickled by Aziraphale’s chest hair. 

“Hmm. Sounds like an awful lot of paperwork. Glad I didn’t have anything to do with it. So . . . will you write me another?” 

“What?” Crowley blinks up at him. Aziraphale is smirking, the bastard. 

“I don’t know, angel. Not really my scene to be honest. And it didn’t really work out all that well.” 

“It did in the end. It would be nice to have one from you, the real you. Please?” 

Crowley grumbles a bit more in protest and settles his head. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says as though it’s already a done deal, which of course it is since Crowley has never been able to resist indulging him. 

“And what will I get in return?” 

“My eternal love and undying devotion.” Aziraphale’s hands are soft in his hair, scratching his scalp gently. Crowley grunts in contentment. 

“Fine. How about: “_Doubt thou the stars are fire;/Doubt that the sun doth move;/Doubt truth to be a liar;/But never doubt I love.”_

“That’s from _Hamlet,_ Crowley. A nice sentiment, but it doesn’t go well for Ophelia in the end. Try again.” 

Crowley snickers. “_He walks in Beauty, like the night/Of Cloudless climes and starry skies;/And all that’s best of dark and bright/meet in his aspect and his eyes.”_

“Byron, my dear, but you’ve unnecessarily changed the pronouns. You know I don’t care about all of that. Why do you tease me?” Aziraphale sounds amused, but he is giving Crowley his best pout. 

“Because you’re irresistible when you’re all riled up.” Crowley swivels and maneuvers himself to sit astride Aziraphale’s hips. 

Aziraphale gives his arse a little smack. “And I should punish you, shouldn’t I, for being such a wily serpent? All these years you’ve professed to dislike reading, and I come to find you’re not only a writer, but you’ve some of the world’s most famous poetry memorised.”

“I can’t help it. The mossst beautiful words remind me of you.” 

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale gasps, as Crowley begins to stroke him to hardness. “That’s a good start.” 

Crowley is already composing the rest as he takes Aziraphale deep. He knows what he will do.

&&&

There is a cottage on the South Downs, small and quaint and filled with love. There is a room only for books and a garden bursting with wildflowers. There are words carved into an apple tree that no one but an angel will ever read. These words can’t be understood by human ears. But to the angel, they are everything. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed it! Leave a comment here or come find me on Tumblr @Magnolia822.


End file.
